


Beeswax and Sandalwood

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), M/M, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Two Christmas markets, then and now.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144





	Beeswax and Sandalwood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 5, fire).

## Five years ago

The market is bright, and crowded, and noisy, as craft markets tend to be around Christmas time. Crowley is leaning against a wall, glaring at anyone who might be under the mistaken impression he’s looking for conversation, as he tends to do whenever Aziraphale manages to drag him to one of these things. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he puts up with this, why his answer to _would you come with me_ is always yes.

(He knows; he just pretends to himself that he doesn’t. He’s very good at pretending. Has to be, to survive.)

This is _not_ how Crowley was planning to spend his rare day off from the Dowlings. It’s been _three hours_ , and Aziraphale shows no sign of wanting to leave. In fact, he’s currently having a friendly, animated conversation with the eight stall-holder in a row, because of _course_ everyone knows him at these things.

The stall Aziraphale is currently patronising is decorated in garish yellow and brown, with cartoon bees aplenty and a sign declaring it to be “Em’s Apiary, est. 1975”; the stall-holder, a short, slight, silver-haired woman with a friendly face, is pulling out a large paper bag, also yellow and brown with cartoon bees, from behind the stall, and handing it to Aziraphale. The angel smiles and takes the bag, hands money to the woman, and then starts walking towards Crowley.

_Finally_. “Shall we head back?” Crowley calls out, as soon as Aziraphale is within earshot.

“Ah, not quite yet, I’m afraid. There are a few more stalls I’d like to visit,” Aziraphale says, apologetically. “I was hoping you might be willing to hold this for me? It’s quite bulky, it would be awkward to carry it around, I fear.”

_Oh, certainly, holding a bag with smiling cartoon bees on it is proper demonic activity_ , Crowley doesn’t say. _I’ve been looking forward to this all day. If only Hastur could see me now._ “Sure, angel. Give it here.”

Aziraphale smiles brightly. “Oh, thank you, dear boy. I’ll be done in a jiffy.”

“In a jiffy,” Crowley echoes, sarcastically, once Aziraphale’s gone. He doesn’t know why he’s always willing to do these things for the angel.

(He knows, he knows, he knows. He does it because it’s all he can get.)

The bag _is_ bulky, and quite heavy, and there’s the clink of glass as Crowley shifts it in his arms and peers inside it. It’s a bunch of glass jars — mostly honey, it looks like, although there are two that contain candles instead. He gives the bag a sniff, curious. Honey, and beeswax, and a sort of peppery, woodsy, complex scent he cannot place, which must be the candles.

“Didn’t peg you for the scented candle kind of angel,” he says, when Aziraphale eventually makes his way back to him. “Looking to liven up heavenly ritual?”

Aziraphale blushes faintly. “Ah, no. It’s almost Christmas, and — there’s no fireplace in the groundskeeper’s cottage at the Dowlings’. I thought a few candles might brighten things up a bit for the season.”

“Sure, makes sense,” Crowley says, half-distracted already. “Lunch?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Let’s.”

## Today

The market is bright, and crowded, and noisy, and Crowley is walking arm in arm with Aziraphale, letting his angel drag him around from stall to stall. So far, there’s been a distinct pattern — every single stall-holder who knows Aziraphale has looked Crowley up and down, raised their eyebrows meaningfully at Aziraphale, then cheerfully carried on with a normal conversation while the angel blushed and half-stammered.

By the tenth stall, Aziraphale’s blush appears to be permanently etched on his cheeks, though there’s a bright smile on his face that he can’t quite suppress and he keeps sneaking side glances at Crowley.

Crowley would be lying if he said he isn’t enjoying this. In fact, he’s so focused on Aziraphale that it takes him a few moments to realise that the next stall is Em’s Apiary, and Aziraphale is very discreetly trying to steer them away from it. And, well, that simply won’t do.

“Hello there,” Crowley calls out, loud enough to attract the stall-holder’s attention.

The woman turns, and smiles. “Oh! Mr Fell, and… I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Call me Crowley,” Crowley says, grinning, holding his hand out for her to shake and very pointedly ignoring the mortified angel at his side.

“Emily,” the woman says, shaking his hand — and giving him a very obvious once-over, eyebrows raised, like the other stall-holders have. “It’s a pleasure. I take it you won’t be needing the candles this year, then, Mr Fell?”

To Crowley’s immense delight, Aziraphale goes _bright red_ and starts stammering so badly he can’t get a word out.

“We’ll take the candles,” Crowley says, still grinning.

Emily smiles. “I’m guessing he’s not told you?”

“He’s told me many things,” Crowley says, “but nothing about the candles. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

Aziraphale splutters, and Emily chuckles. “I think I’ll let him do that. You take care of him, alright? He’s a good one.”

“The best,” Crowley says, softly, entirely honest.

The woman nods, firmly, still smiling. “Good. Don’t worry about money — they’re on me, this year. Merry Christmas,” she says, handing him the now-familiar bag.

“Merry Christmas,” Crowley echoes.

By the time Crowley’s dragged Aziraphale to a quiet corner, the angel’s managed to regain control of himself somewhat, although he’s still crimson.

“So tell me about the candles.”

“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous,” Aziraphale mumbles, looking down.

“That ship has sailed, I started thinking you were ridiculous millennia ago and you’ve done nothing to change my mind since,” Crowley says, cheerfully. “Still love you. Come on. The groundskeeper’s cottage had nothing to do with why you bought the candles, did it?”

“No, I was buying them long before that. Started in ‘72, although Emily didn’t have her own business yet then, she was just selling at a farmer’s market. I went looking for honey, and she also had candles, and I was curious. One of them was sandalwood and pepper, and reminded me of — well.” Aziraphale fidgets, looks up, smiling wistfully. “Of you.”

“Of me,” Crowley says, slowly.

“Yes. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but I bought it anyway, and — it helped, when I had to be away from you because —” Aziraphale makes a vague hand gesture, encompassing all their past troubles. “When I saw her at the market again, I went to buy another, and — she seemed upset, so I asked. She had a girlfriend — her wife, now — and her parents didn’t approve. I told her I understood, and I told her why I wanted the candle, and she offered to adjust the scent so it was closer to what I wanted. It took a few years, but eventually, we managed to find something close enough. Although it still doesn’t quite —”

“— hold a candle to my natural scent?” Crowley finishes the sentence, unable to resist.

Aziraphale scrunches his face and rubs the bridge of his nose. “That’s terrible. You’re terrible. I don’t know why I put up with you. Here I am, making a heartfelt confession, and you —”

“— and I love you,” Crowley says, leaning in to kiss the tip of Aziraphale’s nose to punctuate the sentence. “It’s not ridiculous, it’s _sweet_. And you’ve been to my place, you know I’ve kept — souvenirs. Same idea, slightly different execution.”

“When you put it that way,” Aziraphale says, brightening, tipping his face up for a proper kiss, which Crowley gladly gives him. “It was a touch embarrassing, though.”

“It was great,” Crowley counters, grinning. “I thought you were going to combust on the spot. Does _everyone_ here know about our star-crossed love story?”

“Not everyone,” Aziraphale mutters, still red-cheeked. “The hot chocolate stall changed owners recently, they’ve no idea. Shall we head there next?”

“Sure, angel. Let’s have hot chocolate. Then you can introduce me to everyone else.”

**Author's Note:**

> Could I have angsted? Yep. Did I want to? Nope.
> 
> Almost entirely to blame for this fic are:  
> 
> 
>   1. the discussions about what Crowley might smell like on the Ace Omens Discord;
>   2. the fact that I've been going to a fair few craft markets recently, looking for Christmas gifts, and I've ended up buying a scented candle purely because "hmm, this smells pretty close to what I think Crowley might smell like". 
> 

> 
> (Because, yes, I am that ridiculous. Please feel free to laugh at me, I'm laughing at myself.)
> 
> I can, as ever, be found on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
